


From the Jaws of Death

by jadrea



Series: Wasteland Roaming [3]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Commonwealth, Diamond City, Goodneighbor (Fallout), Non-Consensual Drug Use, Wasteland, intersection with canon, vault-tec
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28985052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadrea/pseuds/jadrea
Summary: Old friends and old enemies go hand-in-hand. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.('Commonwealth Ghost' arc: Episode 3 of 5)
Series: Wasteland Roaming [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874065
Kudos: 1





	1. The Sky is Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mosby never forgets a face, even one seen in passing on a job years ago. A shame that face seems dead-set on making things difficult.

Trouble, he always found himself in the depths of trouble. Causing it, running from it. On occasion, solving it.

But, whether it found him or he found it, he was always neck-deep in trouble.

Why couldn't he leave well enough alone? Why hadn't he ever learned to ignore the sound of a fight just out of earshot, a scream cut suddenly short? Why'd he have to be so damn curious?

Why was it a face he recognized in dire straits, one that loomed out of the fog of passing time as one who'd once been an associate of an associate? He wondered if it would've been easier to ignore had it been a stranger.

Mosby ducked the raider's swinging fist, drove his own upwards and caught them on the underside of the jaw. He raised his pistol and fired as they were reeling back, the shot sending them the rest of the way to the ground. A second and third raider caught hold of his arms and pulled him back, one wrenching the pistol from his hand. Or tried--he tightened his grip and struck out with his boot, hooking the raider's ankle and pulling them off-balance.

Lurching back, Mosby used the raider's momentum to send them sprawling into the one holding his other arm, the motion sending all three to the ground in a heap. He drew his pistol back and struck a sharp blow to one's temple. The crack echoed off the crumbling walls, sounding almost like a distant gunshot. The final raider rolled to their feet, pulling a knife, raising it to strike--but two shots pushed them back, one to the shoulder, another to the gut.

Bang, bang.

They fell, twitching, to the ground.

Mosby reloaded his pistol and stuffed it in his waistband.

"Well, well, Marv Salenti." He extended a hand to help the ghoul to his feet. "Thought you were long dead."

Salenti stared at his hand, made no move to take it. "You killed them."

Mosby lifted a brow, wiped a trail of blood from the lip one of the raiders had managed to split before going down. His eye flicked up and down, taking in the bloody slashes across the ghoul's chest, the marks on his throat, the swollen flesh.

"Seems like they were itching to do the same to you." He reached into his pocket and retrieved a Stimpak. "Here-"

Salenti lurched to his feet, recoiling against the wall.

Fitz frowned. "C'mon, Marv, it's me. Fitz Mosby? Worked with Daisy, we did that job at Trinity Tower few years back?"

Salenti regarded him through wide eyes.

"Mosby," he repeated.

"Yeah."

"The Trinity job. Getting power relay coils."

"That's right."

The ghoul reached forward, hesitantly, for the Stimpak.

"I don't do that sort of thing anymore. Put it behind me."

"Smart." Mosby knelt to rifle through the raiders' jackets, retrieved a handful of caps each and a few .44 rounds, which he shoved in his pockets. "What happened here?"

"They jumped me. Said a ghoul like me shouldn't be seen 'round these parts."

Mosby snorted. "They know Goodneighbor's just down the street? Plenty of ghouls around. You headed that way?"

"I...I don't know."

"You alright?"

"Stay back!" Marv kept his back pressed to the wall, skirted the edge of the ruined room until he reached the door.

"I s'pose a 'thanks' is too much to ask for, huh?" Mosby followed him a few steps behind, scanning the street for any other raiders who might have been drawn by the shots.

"You're trouble," Marv said, fumbling the Stimpak against his chest and tossing the empty cartridge aside. "You stay away from me, I don't do that sort of work anymore."

"Not trying to recruit you, Salenti. I'm just passing through."

"I'm trying to live honest now." Marv turned his back to hasten away down the street, a street that was looking more familiar by the second. A street that ended in an area Mosby steered far away from at all costs. "Ain't you sick of it, the blood, the thieving? I'm done with it, done with it all."

"Look, Salenti-"

"You should've left me to those raiders," the ghoul carried on, stumbling over loose bricks and holes cut deep into the broken pavement. "I'm better off dead than around you."

Words like that didn't hurt Mosby, hadn't for years. If they ever had at all--he'd long ago accepted who he was, what he was. A scrounger, a scavver, looking for caps and trouble. At best a low-down drunk; at worst, a killer.

He lowered his voice to a hiss. "Salenti, you oughta stop moving."

The ghoul ignored him, staggering toward the wrought iron fence, past the plywood barricades, past the frantically-scrawled warnings of what lay beyond.

"Leave me alone!" he shouted.

"Rrraaaaa-"

*

"You're late," Fink snapped, irritably _pup-pupping_ on his pipe. "Were you followed here?"

The other sneered. "What do I look like, an amateur?"

"Could've fooled me." He leaned forward. "Vault 111. You told me it was empty."

"It was."

"It wasn't." _Pup-pup_. "Heard some popsicle crawled out. An alive popsicle, walking and talking--talking, what do you think he might be talking about?"

"Relax. Nobody could've hacked those terminals. Nobody knows about the-"

"Ssh!" Fink hissed. "You're too reckless. And slow, too slow, my clients want results. Results I can't give them unless you deliver."

"Relax," the man repeated. "We'll get you your results. Called in a favor with a mercenary, man with the nose of a bloodhound. Sent him up to Fort Hagen to search through their records, see what he can dig up. And nothing escapes Kellogg, not for long."

"This Kellogg of yours isn't the only one sniffing around." Fink knew they were alone in his house, high in the Stands of Diamond City, but couldn't help staring nervously around, imagining he saw shifting in the shadowy corners. "There's a detective here, a synth. People say he rarely fails, if he catches wind-"

"My people won't talk." Fink received a stony glare. "Only way he'd know is if you open your mouth. But you won't do that, will you? Your clients wouldn't like it one bit if this got out."

There was a moment of icy silence.

"Seems the Vault Dweller's been seen with that detective. You send anyone you can spare to watch the office, figure out who he is."

"You don't order my people around, Fink."

"You Gunners," Fink said the word with distaste, though his voice shook, "you come highly recommended. So far, though, you have failed to deliver. You will get me what I seek. My clients won't wait for long."

The man stood. Fink shrank back in his chair, lifting his pipe in a trembling hand for a half-hearted _pup-pup_.

"We'll watch the detective. Would be a pleasure to kill him, he's caused us a fair amount of...trouble in the past. You won't object if that popsicle of yours finds himself in a bad way, will you?"

"No loose ends," Fink said. "Kill him. Do what you want with the synth."

The man moved toward the door with a sly smile. "Gladly."

*

"aarrggghh!"

"Shit!" Mosby spat, reaching for his pistol.

A pistol against the Swan. Of course it had to be a pistol. Of course he'd had to get side-tracked, get caught up in his dour thoughts, get caught up in his curiosity.

Salenti turned and seemed to be frozen for a moment, watching the murky waters of the pond roil. The swan, its head gracefully curving on a plastic neck, tied to the top of the Swan, its face scarred and snarling. Then he screamed.

Mosby leapt forward, reaching for the ghoul's shoulder. He was shoved away and Salenti, still screaming, flailed wildly, tried to force his feet into motion.

The Swan took a few booming steps closer, reaching to the bundle of ropes on its back to retrieve a boulder. Mosby got off two shots before the rock flew toward him and he dove to the side to avoid becoming a stain on the cobblestones. Salenti wasn't so lucky, the boulder catching him in the chest and sending him flying back into a stone fountain.

The behemoth moved closer, letting out another deafening roar. It seemed to be eyeing Salenti like he was the perfect mid-morning snack. The ghoul was motionless, sprawled in the fountain, a trickle of blood down his temple where he'd landed hard.

Mosby swore again and rolled to his feet. He whistled through his teeth.

"Hey, big boy," he shouted, firing once, twice, three times more at the Swan's head. If he didn't know any better, he'd say the bullets bounced clean off. "Over here! Fresh meat, come and get it!"

The beast fell for it, and, though it was Mosby's intention, he hadn't fully thought through the consequences of the towering creature turning its sights to him. Another boulder flew past, he felt the whoosh of air as it passed.

He turned and made for the nearest tree, attempting to squeeze himself behind it and fired a few times in the direction the Swan approached.

The behemoth gave a roar of pain and Mosby, managing to feel surprise through the irritation, wondered if his blind shots had actually managed to find their mark. Then he heard the whirring of propellers, and realized they weren't alone.

"For the Brotherhood!"

At the stomping of a half-dozen metal feet, Mosby risked a glance around the tree to see the newcomers engaging the Swan, surrounding it, driving it back toward the pond. Across the street, he saw the vertibird lifting off, soaring back into the sky and disappearing over the rooftops.

Ducking from tree-to-tree, he made his way back to the fountain.

"Psst, Salenti," he hissed. "You with me?"

There was no reply, and he heaved a sigh, stepped into the few inches of grimy water and pulled the ghoul up, pulling a Stimpak--his last--from his pocket and plunging it into the limp figure's chest.

The ghoul coughed and stirred, saw Mosby's face and shouted again, struggling free. Mosby, still irritated, released him and let him fall clumsily back into the water.

He turned and was near-blinded by the headlamp of the nearest suit of power armor. Raising a hand to block out the light, he raised his voice over the Swan's dying gurgles.

"You're the Brotherhood, huh?"

"Step aside, citizen."

"Citizen, that might be the nicest thing anybody's ever called me."

"Step aside." A second voice, distorted by the helmet's speakers. "We'll deal with that filth."

Mosby raised a brow. "You got a bar of soap in that suit?"

A laser rifle was directed at his knees. Not his knees--the face behind his knees, the body pressed into the fountain's basin.

"Thanks for killing the Swan. Make a lot of locals breathe a little easier."

"Move." The voice was steadily dropping the pretense of civility.

Mosby stayed very still, kept his hands very visible. Didn't bother to hide the sneer, though.

"Your peaceful intentions don't apply to ghouls, then?"

"Those creatures don't deserve peace. They're filth, to be put down."

"If that's the sort of thing you're bringing to the 'Wealth, lot of people would disagree with you."

"I didn't ask for your opinion," the owner of the rifle snapped.

The other armored figures had finished disposing of the beast in the pond. "Don't be a fool and die for this scum."

Mosby turned his head, realized they stood in a half-circle around him. Blocking him in. Before he could speak, there was a rustling behind him as Salenti tried to crawl away around the back of the fountain.

"Fire!"

Another scream, this one mixed pain and fear like a terrible cocktail, one that left a bitter taste in the mouth and sent bile rising in a drinker's throat. Mosby knew the sound well. He emptied his pistol into the nearest suit of power armor, for all the good it did, and lurched out of the fountain, grabbing hold of the ghoul and dragging him into motion. Lasers singed the ground at his feet, one caught him in the shoulder, sent him staggering.

He kept hold of Salenti, hauling him along, cursing him silently as he couldn't spare the breath at the moment to do it aloud. Cursing himself, too. Cursing the Brotherhood for coming to his Wasteland, for bringing their damn airship and their damn armor.

Running, he was good at running. Usually he did it alone, usually wasn't lugging along a limp body. The way one should run--utterly friendless, utterly aimless, utterly hopeless.

Finally his legs couldn't carry the weight of two anymore and informed him none-too-kindly that they were through running.

They were near the river now, had run for breathless minutes through alleys until the pounding of metal feet had faded into the creaking and groaning of the ruined city. Mosby ducked into a half-collapsed building that provided a view of the street out one window, the riverbank out the other, and sagged against the wall to catch his breath and reload his pistol.

He risked a glance over at the ghoul.

"Wasted my last goddamn Stimpak on you," he wheezed. "Then you go and get yourself shot again. That's two 'paks you've taken from me, count 'em--two!"

Salenti was quiet, gasping for breath himself, though he'd done less running and more played the part of unwitting accessory. He wasn't dead, by some lucky damn chance, the shots had hit him in the leg, rather than the chest or, as the Brotherhood had likely intended, in the head.

"Why-why'd you-" the ghoul started, "Why didn't you lea-leave me?"

Mosby huffed out a laugh. He stowed his pistol in his belt and managed to stop panting. "They didn't seem to want to play nice. Would you rather I'd have left you?"

"You risked your life for me-"

"Twice."

"-for a ghoul-"

"For a ghoul in trouble."

"Why didn't you just let them kill me?"

Mosby still leaned against the wall, looking first at the street, then at the river. He paused, looked over at the ghoul, who didn't bother nursing his bloody leg.

"Would you rather I had?"

Salenti didn't reply, didn't return his gaze.

"Look, let's get you to Goodneighbor, alright? They'll patch you up, I'm sure Daisy has more work-"

"I don't want more work. Not like that, not like-" He shook his head. "You killed those raiders so easy. Didn't even blink."

Mosby pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, puffing quietly.

"I used to do the same. Used to kill and take and loot like it was nothing. The things I've done, at first it was to survive. But, eventually it was-was for fun. For pleasure, even. With a past like that, I can't...I wonder if I can't come back from it."

"We've all got a past." Mosby looked out the window as he spoke, eyes scanning the shoreline. "All done things we regret. But there comes a point where the past doesn't matter anymore."

"You don't understand, the people I've killed. They're with me, always in my head. I hear them, feel them." His voice faltered. "It's been 200 years and I feel the weight of every day."

Mosby removed the cigarette from between his lips and stared at it, long and hard, as if it'd give him some answer. If not the answer he sought, maybe it'd tell him the question he didn't even know to ask.

"What's done is done. If you spend all your time worrying about you did, you'll only waste your time. The future is what matters, the now. We spend our lives making up for the evils of our past. We do all we can to make sure when that day comes, when we're gasping our last, we can say it was all worth it."

"What if it's not?" The red-rimmed eyes grew wet with tears. "What if we don't make it all up?"

"Then it ain't our time yet." Mosby stubbed his cigarette out on the wall and tucked it behind his ear. "Let's go. This place'll be crawling with mirelurks in a minute, I can smell 'em."

He drew his pistol and ducked out the doorway, scanning the street. Wondering if he believed that little speech of his, or if it was just the means to get a reluctant body into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of canon divergence with the timing of the BOS' arrival in the Commonwealth.


	2. In the Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headed for Goodneighbor, Mosby and his reluctant traveling companion are dragged head-first into a showcase fight at the Combat Zone, one that will have fatal consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: needle mention

He was tired, that was it. The only possible explanation for why he'd been snatched so easily. Tired and sore and wanting nothing more than to get to Goodneighbor, to lose the moping ghoul, and drown his thoughts in the Third Rail's watered-down whiskey.

But he couldn't do that, no, because he'd been grabbed.

Five of them, maybe six, out of nowhere.

Well, not nowhere--the Combat Zone. That was the direction in which they dragged him, anyway, though they'd been passing a few blocks away, along a route he thought would keep them free and clear of the raiders.

Everybody knew of the establishment, filled to the brim by raiders looking to spill blood and prove their might, to get their kicks by squeezing the life out of a poor fool who thought they could go toe-to-toe with the vilest, meanest brutes around.

And while Mosby loved a fight, even he wasn't stupid enough to walk right in and start one.

But, though he struggled and spat and swore, the hands on his arms kept an iron grip, dragging him along the street, and it seemed he'd get that fight after all. He heard the jeers of raiders looking on, heard the frightened whimpering of Salenti, dragged along behind him, and redoubled his swears.

Somehow he could blame the ghoul for getting him into this. Blame the raiders for jumping him, blame the sun for going down and casting long shadows down the cracked and ruined pavement.

Hell, even blame that merchant who'd turned him out of Bunker Hill. Yeah, that was it--it was that merchant's fault, for not hearing him out, for killing his last lead and now, by extension, killing Mosby himself.

"You want a fight?" he spat. "Let me go, I'll give you a fucking fight. You fuckin-"

They were nearing the door now, their little procession ground to a halt as a macabre-looking goon stepped forward, face covered in slashes and scars, thin slit of a mouth leering out from beneath a crooked nose.

"What's this?" she asked. "Fresh meat?"

"Tough one," the raider with his fingers digging into the back of Mosby's neck replied. "Put up a fight, think he and the boss should go a few rounds."

"You think so, huh?" Thin-mouth stepped forward, appraising Mosby. He lurched toward her and she stepped back before his forehead could come into contact with her chin. She let out a sharp laugh. "Somebody sure thinks he's tough."

"Fuck you," Mosby snarled.

"And what's this?" She peered past him to the ghoul, cowering with a single raider escort of his own. "This one wouldn't last a minute, kill 'im."

"How 'bout you let me go," Mosby struggled to free his hands, ignoring the burning in his shoulder from the ragged hole left by a Brotherhood laser rifle, "and I'll cave your fuckin' skull in."

Another sharp laugh. "Let 'im watch first, seems his friend will put on a nice show."

Mosby started to snap that he wasn't the ghoul's fucking friend, he wasn't anybody's fucking friend, and he didn't care what sort of show they had in mind, only that he was about to free his hands and get in a few blows before running for the hills. But he didn't get the chance to finish the thought, or get more than the first few syllables past his lips.

Thin-mouth retrieved a syringe from a cooler by the door and grinned. "Boss'll enjoy killing you."

A fist to Mosby's jaw sent his head reeling, and, despite his best efforts, he could only watch as his sleeve was ripped open and the syringe was plunged into his arm. He felt the sharp stab of the needle and let out a roar of pain, tried to pull away.

He could feel the chems--whatever the fuck it was, what the fuck was it?--spreading through his arm, into his fingers, up his skin, into his chest. Felt like his veins were burning.

The raiders dragged him inside, through the lobby, past the rows of chairs and flashing lights. An announcer boomed excitedly about a new contestant, a last-minute entry, and he was too hazy with pain--not fear, it wasn't fear--to comprehend the voice was talking about him.

In the center of the room, amid the audience with their near-deafening roar, was a cage of plywood and rusted fencing. He was thrown inside and landed hard on the floor, covered in blood and sawdust and hunks of hair and flesh. His vision was blurry, red-tinged, he could barely breathe, felt like his throat was full of hot coals.

Fitz Mosby dragged himself to his feet, glaring warily around.

He knew how this would go. Do a little fighting, a little showboating. Get the audience on your side or don't, either way, make sure the fucker that ended up dead wasn't you. Simple. He'd done this sort of thing before, not at the Combat Zone, of course, but he'd had his fair share of knuckle-bruising bouts.

He didn't bother looking into the audience, tried to tune out their shouts--the pounding in his ears did wonders to dampen the sound.

"Alright," he wheezed, "I know how this- _huff_ -"

The knife plunged into his back, how could he have missed it? How didn't he hear the man behind?

Mosby roared again, reached behind, tried to grab the blade, but it was twisted and wrenched out. He wheeled around, unsteady on his feet, and saw a face he might recognize. One he'd seen crudely sketched on wanted posters, heard mutters of in passing, about those hard green-gray eyes. The last thing you saw before the final bullet takes you. Though, Mosby's hazy mind wondered and wandered as he stumbled a few steps back and tried to keep his footing, the stories were false, of course. They had to be--'cause if it was the last thing you saw, you'd hardly be around to tell someone else, who'd tell someone else, who'd tell...

"Am I supposed to know you?" He had to keep his feet, this was the sort of fight in which you went down only once, never got a chance to stand back up. "Supposed to be impressed by this fucking club of yours?"

"It's not mine." The man wiped the blade of the knife on his trousers, leaving a bloody smear in its wake. "Borrowing it from a friend."

The face, did he know the face? Did he know the name?

"How do you feel?"

Mosby gave a bitter laugh, keeping his eye on the man, listening hard for movement behind him, but his vision was getting blurrier by the moment, his ears full of cotton.

"What do you fucking care?"

"Got quite a bit riding on this. On you." Was he coming closer? Was it Mosby's eyes playing tricks? "See, I need you to win this fight."

Mosby blinked hard, threw a hand out behind to blindly feel for the fence. Why was he so hazy? What the fuck was in that syringe?

"Me to win? Think you got it backwards, jackass."

"You've made it further than the others. Most don't make it through the door. So I'll ask again: how do you feel? Your veins burning? Feel fire in your chest?"

Mosby coughed, spat on the ground. Saw a bright orange-red stream fly from his lips. What the-

"You-" Stay focused, Mosby. He latched onto the fence, began to feel his way around the edge of the ring. Glare fixed ahead, boots slipping on blood and god knows what else. Feeling for a door, a gap in the fencing, anything. "You Kellogg?"

A startled laugh. "Kellogg? No, not me. He's a mean son of a bitch, though, you met him? He says we're allies, friends even, but I don't trust him as far as I can throw him. Shame he's not here, I think he'd like to see this."

Mosby doubled over as a sudden spasm of pain nearly sent his legs out from under him.

He spat another mouthful of goo to the ground. "What the fuck is this?"

"You like it? Kellogg, he's a man who values more traditional weapons. Guns, bombs, the like. That's where we're different, see, I like a chem approach, myself."

The man watched Mosby struggle to straighten, carry on his slow, shuffling dance around the edge of the arena. Clawing at the fence to stay upright, searching for an opening. The cool green-gray eyes never seemed to blink.

"How about," Mosby slurred, through a mouthful of spit and blood--was that his blood?, "you open the door, and I won't kill you. I'll let you walk right out of here."

The man laughed again, and it was a hearty chuckle, like Mosby had told a particularly funny joke. Like they were two old friends who'd met in passing, exchanging pleasantries.

"All this talk of weapons--don't you tire of it? Of the pistols and rifles and missiles." He wrinkled his nose. "Boring. Lacks originality, I keep telling Fink that, keep telling him to focus elsewhere, stop searching for that damn folk tale of his. Turn to where the future really lies, with chem warfare. But," he sighed, scanning Mosby from head to foot, shaking his head, "you don't look like you'll last the hour. Damn, I thought we'd gotten the dosage right."

"Fu-uughh," Mosby groaned, felt the sweat on his face, felt it soaking his shirt. He could barely see, barely think for the pain. His whole body aflame.

"Well, we live and we learn. Not for nothing, we're still working out the kinks. You did a very valuable service. I'm grateful to you, not that it matters."

He raised the knife and paused. Watching, waiting. Mosby, acting on instinct, as his mind was far out of the picture, lurched forward, swinging wide. The man easily side-stepped, let Mosby right himself and swing again. Again, he stepped aside.

As Mosby staggered toward him a third time, the knife caught him across the abdomen. He could barely grunt, the pain was too much, could barely turn around and raise his fist to attempt another strike.

The man was smiling, almost apologetically, like it pained him to taunt Mosby so, like a spider having second thoughts about a beetle trapped, flailing, in its web.

Mosby stumbled back, falling into the fence, trying to stay standing--don't go down, don't fall down--and tried to feint right, meaning to dart left for open air, to stumble across the arena and try again, desperately, to find the opening. The man watched him with those piercing green-gray eyes, raised the knife.

Plunged it into Mosby's heart.

The crowd was roaring, calling for blood, and Mosby could hear it, faintly. He gasped, shuddered in surprise. Didn't think he would-didn't think this would...

His hand scrabbled for the knife, was quickly soaked with blood, too slick to catch hold. The man ripped the blade free.

Mosby's knees wobbled, nearly fell, his vision darkening, narrowing.

"You really can't do any more?" the man asked, almost plaintively. "No more fight in you? Nothing at all?"

Mosby was gasping for air that wouldn't come, did a few weak swings, blindly through the air. Nowhere close. How could he--how did he...

The fist to his blind side caught him off-guard. He staggered, lost his grip on the fence, went down hard on his back. And his wandering, wondering mind could only repeat _don't go down, don't fall down_.

The air was gone, he couldn't breathe. He could hear himself gasping, a terrible, pitiful sound. His mouth was full of that orange-red spit, sticky globs of it frothing out the corners of his lips and onto his neck. He could feel the blood wetting his clothes, seeping into the stained wood floor.

He twitched, trying to draw breath, to move. The man leaned over him, tucking the knife in a sheath at his side, peering into Mosby's face.

"How does it feel?" There was genuine curiosity in his voice. "Can you feel the life leaving your body? Feel it draining out?"

Mosby weakly grabbed for the man's boot, to pull him off-balance, maybe, an attempt to do something, anything, but left only bloody smears across the leather.

Anger, that was what he felt. Surprise. Not fear, it wasn't fear--it wasn't...wasn't-fear, he was...afraid. The looming darkness, the fire in his veins, he couldn't breathe, and he was afraid. Afraid of death-- _not like this, not like this_.

His hand fell to his chest, then slipped to the floor. It clawed weakly at the bloody sawdust, growing weaker, weaker.

And then, with no great final flare, Fitz Mosby was dead.

*

Preston Garvey was an observant man. He had to be, to keep the Minutemen alive, somebody had to watch their backs. And as the others, the few who were left, were occupied with fortifying the settlement at Sanctuary Hills, it rest on his shoulders to watch the roads in and out of town, to keep an eye out for Gunners he was sure were bound to appear, for any looming threats.

It was frustrating, then, that Mama Murphy was so damn good at sneaking up on him.

"You remember that scavver?" she asked.

Preston jumped and turned, ruefully shaking his head. "Gotta stop doing that."

"Remember that scavver?" she repeated. "Mosby?"

Garvey raised an eyebrow. "Interested in the Vault? Sure, what about him?"

"Needs help."

The man snorted. "Didn't seem too interested in helping us, Mama Murphy. Made that pretty clear."

"I didn't say we need him," she said, leaning back against a mailbox and folding her hands in front of her. "He needs help. Our help." Her cloudy blue eyes studied him. "Your help."

He frowned. "You been hitting the chems again? I told you, you've got to stop. It's not good for you."

"He needs help."

Preston sighed. "I'm sorry, I can't. Got my hands full here, I'll send-"

"Needs your help, Preston. Go east."

"Mama-"

"Check the settlements along the coast."

She started to walk away with slow, shuffling steps, and he called after her,

"Where is he?

Mama Murphy paused, glanced up at the sky. She saw the darkness spread in waves across the land, saw the spark go out. Flick a switch, it all goes dark.

"Hm," she said aloud. "Go east."

"Wait-"

She waved him off, continuing up the road toward the center of the settlement and the roaring cookfire. Preston Garvey sighed again and shouldered his rifle, following a few paces behind to pack his rucksack.

Guess he was headed east.


	3. Life, Death, or Otherwise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Commonwealth's an odd place. Most odd of all, though, is the tendency of the dead to, upon occasion, wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of suicidal ideations, vomiting

The Commonwealth was an odd place. Not just from the radiation, though that was a major contributing factor. The people of the 'Wealth had their odd ways, carried on their odd warfare, their odd alliances.

Most odd of all, though, was the tendency of the dead to, upon occasion, wake up.

So when a dead man woke up in a pool of his own blood, fire in his veins, vision blurry and narrow, like looking down a fog-filled tunnel, it was odd, certainly. But not unheard of.

The man remembered, remembered something. He...died. So cold. The blood, he couldn't breathe. The air was gone, replaced by empty gurgling as his life drained out.

He had died, and yet, he lived.

A dream, it must have been a dream.

It was all too much for the man, and he curled on his side, arms crossed tightly across his chest, eye glazed and unblinking.

"Dead," he murmured. "Just a dream. Dream. Dead."

A figure stirred outside the fence, in the rows of chairs, just visible through the haze on the edge of his vision. He was too tired, too afraid-no, not afraid. Angry. Surprised. Not-he wasn't afraid. It was a dream, he wasn't afraid. He was too tired to care when the figure saw him stirring and let out a muffled scream.

Wasn't a dream. No, it was real. But he hadn't-he couldn't have died. No, because if he'd died he wouldn't be...alive. And he was alive, most certainly. Not dead, he hadn't died. No way. Not...no, it wasn't possible.

Finally, after what felt like hours--hours, had it been hours?--his arms uncurled, his vision cleared. He sat up. Then he stood up. Looked down at the blood soaking his clothes, at the rips in his shirt. Looked out at the audience, now empty but for a single chair in the front row, occupied by a trembling figure secured in place with rope, a bandana tied around its mouth.

The cage door was open. He staggered across the floor, stumbling on the slick floor, unable to see where he was putting his boots. Gone was the flurry of light that had illuminated the arena, just a few dim bulbs along the walls remained on.

As he drew closer, the scream grew louder. Even louder when he pushed the cloth away from the figure's mouth, tried to ignore the way his hands were shaking.

"Get away from me!"

Fitz Mosby, blood-soaked and angry--not afraid, angry--glared at him.

"Shut up, Salenti."

The ghoul had an expression like he'd seen a feral get up after getting its head blown off. "You died."

"I didn't," Mosby snapped.

"I saw you-"

"I almost died. Plenty of people almost die every day in the Commonwealth, it's a dangerous place. I didn't die." He was speaking for his own benefit now, he couldn't look Salenti. " _I didn't die._ "

"All the blood...so much blood-" The ghoul's eyes were wide, it pushed itself back in its chair as Mosby reached to untie the ropes.

"Shut up," he snarled. "You want out of here or not?"

Salenti fell silent, watching as the ropes were ripped away with ease, and Mosby told himself it was the anger in his chest that tore them off so quickly. The ghoul pushed to his feet and stumbled away, toward the door.

Mosby stood, watching him go. His left fist clenched as his side, fingers itching for the butt of his gun. His pistol was gone, the raiders had taken it. He didn't care, not anymore. He wanted to shoot someone, hit someone, feel something.

He didn't know why--and it scared the hell out of him.

No, not scared. He wasn't scared. Mad, he was mad as hell.

He stalked down the aisle, pushed through the door. Glanced to the side and caught sight of himself in one of the lobby's glass cases. Saw his eye was wide and red-rimmed. Saw bruises and shallow cuts across his cheeks. Saw a slash across his shirt, reached down and saw the skin below was unmarred.

One sleeve was torn away, the other bore blackened singe marks from a Brotherhood laser. The skin below, untouched.

His hand, shaking, moved to his chest. To his heart. Felt it beating, racing, pounding its way out of his ribs. Though his shirt was soaked with blood, though dried orange-red spit covered his neck and hands, there was no mark. No hole. Should there be...the blade, he remembered the blade. Had felt it plunge into his chest, into his heart.

In a moment, he heard rather than felt the window break, saw the shower of broken glass fall to the carpet at his feet. Looked at his fist in surprise, saw bits of glass stick to the skin.

He stuffed his fists in his pockets and left the Combat Zone.

"Where the fuck are you going?" he called after Salenti.

The ghoul was running as fast as he could on his leg, burned from the encounter with the Brotherhood. He wasn't making good time, had barely made it a block before Mosby caught up to him.

"Stay away!"

Bile rose in Mosby's throat.

"Damnit, Salenti, you owe me-"

Salenti tripped on a pile of bricks and went down hard, bloodying his palms. Mosby seized his arm and dragged him to his feet. The ghoul shouted in pain and wrenched away.

"Salenti-"

"You died, I saw you die-"

"I didn't die!" His vision went red, then black, and when he blinked it clear, the ghoul was frozen in fear. Mouth open in a silent scream.

Mosby looked down and saw his fist was through a wall. A concrete wall. Stone crumbling, dust landing on his boots. He removed his hand and saw it undamaged, just the usual dirt and dried blood. Didn't even scratch a nail.

A hole the size of his fist left in the concrete.

"I didn't..."

He didn't bother trying to stop the ghoul as he regained momentum and staggered away, disappearing into the ruined streets. Simply let him go as he stared down at his hands, stared at the blood soaking his clothes. Staring.

_What the fuck did they do to me?_

*

Diamond City's intrepid reporter wasn't a thief. She wasn't a crook. An eavesdropper, sure. Too eager to get her nose into things that didn't concern her, absolutely.

But she was no common criminal.

You wouldn't know that, though, by how often she was thrown into the local jail, into a cell that was by now like a second home.

"Enjoy your stay in the Piper Suite," a Diamond City guard said, as she slammed the door in Piper's face.

"This is unlawful confinement!" the reporter shouted. "This'll be a great story, just wait 'til I get out of here. Think of the headline: 'Local Reporter Held Without Cause, Freedom of Press Impeded'-"

"It's hardly without cause, Piper." The Security guard on duty, who'd drawn the short straw to sit watch over the cells and was none too happy about her circumstances, rolled her eyes. "You were harassing the residents up in the Stands."

"I wasn't harassing anybody!"

"Then why'd Mr. Fink file a complaint about you? Said you got in his face, were asking a lot of personal questions."

"Asking somebody's name is hardly personal." Piper sat back on the bench and crossed her arms.

She must be doing something right--sure, she'd gotten locked up again, and knew she'd get an earful from Nat when she got out. But this was a warning, a flexing of rich muscle. A clear message from Fink to stay out of his business. And that meant she was on the right track.

"I want to send a message."

"We all want things, Piper."

Piper frowned. "How am I s'posed to make bail if you won't let me send any messages? Remember that headline, that unlawful confinement? I can make it bad for you, all you Security who stand in the way of reporting the truth-"

"No bail."

"What?"

The guard could've sprained her eyeballs from rolling them so vigorously. "You're not getting out that easy. You'll stay overnight, think about what you've done. Come the morning, we'll release you to terrorize the public once again, but until then, you'll stay put. And we'll all have a quiet night for once."

Piper's frown deepened. "So it's tonight, huh?"

"Quiet down."

The reporter ignored her, beginning to pace the cell, tapping her pen against her chin.

She'd spooked Fink by asking questions--innocent questions. And he'd seemed awfully interested in the Vault Dweller. If he was really serious about the harassment business, he could file a complaint with the Mayor, use his sway as a resident of the Stands. God knows McDonough would jump at the chance to kick her out of town in a heartbeat.

But tonight--just keep her locked up, out of the way, for tonight.

So what was tonight?

Across town, a man calling himself Fink made his way out of Diamond City. He walked quickly, eyes darting across broken windows and side streets, fingers tight around the laser pistol he barely knew how to use.

As he approached the river, the city grew quieter, the light grew dimmer, as if the very streets were watching his every move.

Fink arrived at the meeting spot, on the promenade along the river. He fidgeted as he waited, checking and rechecking the fusion cells in his pistol. His eyes were drawn from the nearby wrecked tug boat as three columns of crackling blue light appeared around him. He flinched as the synths materialized.

One stepped forward, its jet black coat swishing quietly along the ground. Fink could feel the burning gaze even behind the dark sunglasses.

"You're making us wait, Fink," the courser said.

"I-I know, I've got my best man on it, I've told him of the need to hurry-"

"We don't like to wait, Fink."

"I-"

"You'll find us what we seek." The courser stepped closer and it was all Fink could do not to shrink back. "Or we'll find someone who can."

"Yes, yes, I promise I'll-"

The synths were already moving away down the promenade. Fink didn't allow himself to breathe until they'd crossed a bridge and slipped out of sight on the other side of the river.

*

Fitz Mosby was sure he'd torn his way through half of Boston by the time he reached the gates of Diamond City.

His fists curled, stained red with blood--none of it his own. His hackles bared, sucking in breaths through gritted teeth. His chest was on fire, his vision tinged red.

A fight, that was what he needed. Another fight.

Raiders, they were nothing. Fell before him like they were made of paper. The bullets tore into him, left ragged holes in his shirt. When the blood was spilled and the bodies motionless all around, his skin was clear. Untouched. Not a bullet hole to be found.

Ferals, they were child's play. Their flailing limbs, gnashing teeth did nothing to him. Struck only glancing blows. He ripped easily through them, sending heads, arms, legs flying.

Then super mutants.

He'd been wandering around, itching for a fight. It'd been hours, days, maybe, he couldn't be sure. He didn't care about his pistol, he didn't need it. Had his fists. And when he heard the baying of the mutant hound, he knew he'd found his mark. Found that fight he wanted.

Maybe he'd get lucky and it'd be his last.

He wasted the first two mutants quickly, barely feeling their blows, the boards splintering off his head. Cracking, falling apart in the mutants' hands.

Then he'd heard the approaching _beep-beep_ , the unmistakable sound that sent scavvers' hearts racing, sent their feet pounding the ground. As the suicider approached, Mosby stood his ground. Raised his fists. Bared his teeth in a grin. Finally.

_Ka-BOOOM._

And he was standing.

The mutant in a pile of glowing goo at his feet. Nearby cars in twisted metal wrecks. Fire flickering in the remains of a feral ghoul who'd been unlucky enough to have been caught in the blast.

But he was standing.

His shirt in tatters, his fists blackened from soot, his hair singed. He could only stare down at his hands. Nearly untouched. Barely a scratch.

His wandering feet took him to the gates of Diamond City, carried him past the baseball bats of the Security guards.

"The fuck happened to you?" one asked.

Mosby ignored them, breathing hard, fighting against the urge to rip their throat out, to tear them limb from limb. To rip down that damn green wall one stone at a time. He gave his head a sharp shake and entered the market.

Neon sign. He was looking for a neon sign.

A few feet away, he saw Piper Wright being dragged unceremoniously in the direction of the Security office, shouting something about unlawful confinement. He barely heard her, barely saw it. There was a great red fog in his mind, a lust for blood.

He swallowed the bile in his throat. Found the sign, pushed open the door. Ignored the secretary's greeting.

"Valentine," he grunted. "Where."

Ellie Perkins blinked indignantly, though she was hardly unused to such gruff addresses.

"Out," she replied.

Before he knew what he was doing, Mosby was leaning across the desk, planting his fists on the surface, baring his teeth. Snarling the question.

"Where is he?"

Ellie reached for the desk drawer, for the pistol within, stopped just short of drawing. "I said he's out."

There was a moment's pause.

Mosby felt a strange, sharp pain and looked down. Saw he'd put his hand down square on a glass, shattered it to jagged shards beneath his palm. He hadn't even heard it break.

He was staring at his hand, at the wounds that didn't bleed, that appeared to heal right before his eyes, when the door opened.

Nick Valentine had his hat in his hand, half-turned to talk to someone down the alley.

"I'm sure she's done something to deserve it," he was saying. "Who knows, maybe she did it on purpose. Getting information from the inside, or some such harebrained scheme."

He glanced inside the office, saw Mosby leaned over the desk, saw Ellie with her hand inching toward the pistol, and blinked.

"The hell's going on here?"

Mosby was still staring at his hand. He straightened, took a step away from the desk.

"Lead on Kellogg. Combat Zone. Associates with somebody there."

Without another word, he pushed past the detective and walked out the door.

"You alright?" Valentine asked, and Ellie nodded.

Replacing his hat on his head and setting his jaw, Nick turned once more for the door. He found Mosby headed for the city gates, staring straight ahead.

"What the hell were you doing?"

Mosby didn't reply, didn't pause until Valentine shouldered his way in front to block his path.

"I asked you a question. What the hell do you think you're-"

"Get out of my way." Mosby was gripping the railing, fighting against that call for blood that seemed to come from deep in his veins. His hand tensed of its own accord, but he couldn't even feel it.

"You don't just go around threatening people, you hear me? 'Specially not around here."

Valentine caught hold of his arm and was surprised at the force with which Mosby shoved him away. He was still just long enough for the man to push past him again and carry on up the ramp.

He'd heard a strange metallic crunch, thought for a moment it might've been his arm--though, no, it couldn't be. He was made of tougher stuff than that. Then his eyes were drawn to the railing, the spot Mosby had gripped with white knuckles.

It was bent out of shape, crumpled and crushed. Indents left by five curled fingers marring its surface.

His jaw opened, then closed, all without a sound. He looked up as Mosby disappeared into the plaza beyond the gates, and was still a moment longer before he could entice his feet into motion.

"Hey," he called. "Hey, wait a damn minute!"

Mosby didn't pause, though Valentine had hardly expected him to. He broke into a jog to catch up.

"What's this about Kellogg? What do you know?"

"Told you all I know. Combat Zone. Associates there."

"Suppose I shouldn't be surprised you frequent that sort of joint," Valentine muttered. "Say, something going on with you? You seem all out of sorts."

Mosby didn't reply, lifting his head at the sound of distant gunshots. He turned in their direction. A fight, he was itching for a damn fight.

"You hear me?"

That damn detective dogging his every step. Couldn't he just leave him alone? Why the fuck did he have to follow? Mosby's hands twitched at his sides, gave him a sudden vision of tear off the synth's head, of crushing the gears within to dust, of ripping open that damn fake flesh and bending the metal skeleton within into an unrecognizable lump--

He blinked hard, clenched his fists. Walked quicker toward those gunshots, they were his salvation. Maybe they could free him, could end this.

"Mosby, what'd they say about Kellogg? You hear where he is, what he's doing-"

"Leave me alone," Mosby spat. Or thought he'd spat.

The surprise on Valentine's face and the way the sound echoed off the crumbling walls all around informed him he'd actually roared the words, had shouted them so loud they left his throat ragged.

His chest was burning, his head, too. That fire creeping up his spine, that call for blood.

"What was that?" a voice called, from the doorway of a nearby building.

Not pausing to think, Mosby wheeled toward the voice. Set off at a staggering pace, hoping they were raiders or scavvers or somebody, anybody who'd put up a fight. Better than those pathetic raiders, those ghouls, that mutant that had exploded in his face, should've killed him, why didn't it kill him--

He heard Valentine swear behind him, heard him hiss that Mosby was out of his damn mind, but he didn't care.

Mosby stepped inside, caught the first raider by surprise. His back was to the door, it was easy to reach forward and snap his neck. To reach for the pistol that clattered to the ground. To open fire at the others scrambling toward the staircase to the upper level, raising the alarm.

He'd walked right into the heart of a raider compound, hopelessly outgunned, outmanned. Good. That was good.

He walked steadily on, tearing through as they charged him, tearing through them like he'd torn through the raiders and the ghouls and the super mutants, tearing through them like the fire that tore through his veins. Like the bile that tore up his throat, that burned the inside of his mouth.

Valentine was behind him, huddled behind an overturned desk, every third word a curse. He peered around the edge and saw Mosby suddenly double over, frozen a few feet away.

"Damn, you hit?"

Mosby couldn't reply, couldn't breathe. He clawed at his throat with numb fingers, could swear some fire was raging inside him, was melting through the skin, searing him from the inside-out.

The detective fired a few blind shots over the desk and hastened over. "Jesus, you look bad. We've got to get you out of here."

Keeping his head down, mindful of the bullets whizzing just inches above, he reached for Mosby's arm. The man shrugged him off.

"I don't have-have any caps," Mosby coughed. "All gone, wasted. Can't-can't pay you."

Valentine reached for his arm again and hauled it over his shoulders. He made for the door, scrambling from cover to cover. Mosby could barely hear him as he shouted over the gunfire, over the pounding in his ears.

"Don't want your caps, kid."

The two ducked out the door, Mosby's dragging feet slowing them down. The night air was rank and hot, like a blanket over his face. He staggered along, gaze on his boots, vision hazy. He lifted his head and saw they'd made it three blocks without him realizing.

"Why are you-" He coughed, spat a gob of orange-red ooze to the ground, raising a shaking hand to wipe his mouth. "I can't pay. Why are you helping me?"

Valentine had his pistol in one hand, scanning the surroundings, trying to orient himself in the maze of streets. He scoffed.

"Sometimes, I like to help people for the sake of helping people. A little hobby of mine, I try and prove to myself the world hasn't quite gone to hell yet."

A sudden stab of pain in his gut sent Mosby to his knees, nearly dragging the synth down with him. He heaved a lungful of orange-red goo to the dirt, drawing hot tears that ran down his nose.

_Not afraid, no, he wasn't afraid--_

Valentine looked on, aghast.

"Never seen a gunshot wound do that," he managed.

"Not-shot." Mosby's arms wrapped around his chest, reaching for the blade sticking out of his heart. He was sure it was there, he could feel it, but his fingers found nothing but a dusty, sweat-stained shirt. "Chems. Some fuck injec-injected me."

"When'd this happen?"

"Days...ago, I don't know." His nose was in the dirt, he was gasping in dust and ash, his fingers clenched tightly in his shirt. "At the-the Combat Zone. I don't-I don't know what-"

The last time he'd cried--outside of the occasional tear of pain, one you could hardly prevent when a fist broke your nose--had been so long ago he couldn't remember the circumstance, couldn't remember the way it'd felt.

But when Fitz Mosby looked up, his eye, the one that wasn't scarred over, the one that was narrowed against the pain, was full of tears.

"I don't know what's happening to me."

Valentine's eyes were wide, darting from his face to the puddle of goo on the ground. After a moment, he crouched and placed a hand on Mosby's shoulder.

"We'll get you some help, kid. Let's-" He paused, thinking hard, and Mosby could hear the gears whirring between his ears. "Goodneighbor. There's a sore bones there who might be able to help. Can you stand?"

"I-I don't-"

More gunshots from behind, the raiders weren't giving up so easy. Valentine heaved him to his feet.

"Unfortunately, doesn't seem like you've got much of a choice."

Mosby could only cough, felt that ooze--what the hell was that damn ooze?--trickle down his chin as the detective dragged him toward Goodneighbor. His stumbling boots caught on the uneven ground, his vision clouded over with a dark red haze.

He barely noticed when the bright neon glow of the settlement's main gate loomed out of the darkness.


End file.
